


the weight of a microphone

by ibArche



Category: Original Work
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Character Study, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, I mean I guess??, Skyrates, fuck i hate html formatting fuck you fuck you fuck you, how meta can we get folks?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibArche/pseuds/ibArche
Summary: I.B.’s been running for a while.Born in dust-filled, acrid, smoggy Cache, California, it’s all that they can do. They’ve been doomed and destined to run since the beginning, really. They just didn’t know it yet.For as long as they’ve been alive, it’s been I.B., and I.B. alone.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Skyrates from Knowhere





	the weight of a microphone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WreakingHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/gifts).



> skyrates is irrevocably, certifiably pog, shoutout to stories from floories. :)
> 
> also penal codes for california are a _bitch_ to research, and PC 406 didn't really fit what i was going for, but that's all you can do in a post-apocalyptic(?) world, i guess.
> 
> anyways, hope you enjoy the read! :)

**PROFILE I.D.:** #000462357  
**NAME:** [UNKNOWN]  
**ALIAS:** I.B.  
**DOB:** [REDACTED]  
**AGE:** 16 Years Old.  
**POB:** Cache, Ca.  
**POWERED:** **[Y]** /N  
**CHARGES:**

-XX, XX, 20XX - Cache Police Force: PC 448: Petty Theft from [REDACTED]. - 2 mo. 
-XX, XX, 20XX - Whistleblower: Report of Powered Radicalization Attempt. 
-XX, XX, 20XX - Cache Police Force: PC 406: Detainment Due to Powered Radicalization Attempt. - 5 y. 
-XX, XX, 20XX - Cache Police Force: Successful Prison Escape from Cache City Jail. - 10 y. 


**STATUS:** On the run.

— 

**ACT I: the air that you need**

Oh, to only feel freedom by the breeze on the back of your neck as you reach for the clouds. 

How lonely that would be.

— 

**ACT II: the weight of a microphone**

Eventually, you have to get tired of running. It’s a matter of fact statement. Every inhale takes twice as much effort until you’re practically wheezing. Your legs have long-been sore, long-been numb, with every heavy step taken. The feeling of the sun’s rays weigh heavy on your neck and back. Sweat dribbles down your brow as you furiously flick your gaze around corners of tall monoliths, only resting when alone.

I.B.’s been running for a while. 

Born in dust-filled, acrid, smoggy Cache, California, it’s all that they can do. They’ve been doomed and destined to run since the beginning, really. They just didn’t know it yet.

For as long as they’ve been alive, it’s been I.B., and I.B. alone.

Heaven is home, heaven is the people you love, heaven is the people you cherish. 

Heaven is family.

Heaven — was also said to be burned.

Heaven — was also said to be lost to the flames and ash and soot of holy fire, strewn around by the light of sleepless golden wheels that had once guarded a throne.

They could’ve had their own slice of heaven at one point, they could have had a home to go back to when things got rough. But heaven was gone, heaven was burned, and they didn’t have a home — anymore at least — so what did it matter?

_(It doesn’t, they tell themself. It doesn’t matter. People have it worse, just keep running, and don’t look back. You can’t ever look back.)_

They tuck a dirty, worn baseball cap closer to their chest. It’s the only thing they have left of home at this point. Of course, Cache is still standing; the herculean city is still bustling and full of pioneers and busy urbanites, but… there’s just one less now. To tell the truth, nothing’s ever really, _truly_ felt like home, but they push it away in favor of nostalgia and what could’ve been.

So, I.B. had to learn. They had to learn how to discard disguises at the drop of a hat. They shed name by name, never settling on one particular identity, always one step ahead of the other player of the game, and they never let people catch on until it was too late, and they were halfway down the block, and halfway out of the city. 

They had to learn how to change how they spoke and performed even quicker. They had to _earn_ a silver tongue, build it upon years of mistakes and base it on regret and bitterness, and coat it with the distraction of experience, and unripe, unadulterated confidence.

Confidence got you places, they realized, when they first held a microphone, a shoddy mask covering their face, baseball cap clutched tightly in their sweaty fist. Their words met suspicion, but there was an underlying curiosity hidden beneath their whispers and subtle glares. Humans are a naturally curious species, after all. They always want to know more, they always _needed more._

That was when they realized that they could really _do this._

It was also the first moment they allowed themself to feel hope since they’ve started running. 

Hope, for the powered. Hope, for the air that they sorely inhaled. Hope, that they could actually make it.

They set up groups all over the cities in Angel County. Most of them are small, only 20-30 wide, but the vagabonds and questants who needed a home are learning. And when they’re done learning and I.B.’s done teaching, they send the groups off to spread the word of an organization that needs their help. 

Over the course of months, I.B. also learns. Learns more than just how to weave lies, more than just how to turn flimsy, unstable card towers into intricate, perfect spider webs. They learn all the points the crowd brings up like the back of their hand, and how to refute them like they know their own breath. 

So why didn’t they see it coming?

They berate themselves for weeks on end, about how _idiotic_ they were, about how _it shouldn’t have happened,_ about how _it wouldn’t have happened if I were just a little bit smarter, a little bit stronger, a little bit faster, a little more distant from it all, just enough so I could see-_

About how it was so, so _stupid_ for them to find freedom and solace and a _purpose_ with a microphone in their grasp.

They hear the tell-tale sounds of shattered glass and broken down doors. Boots storm through the hallways, and they know that it’s only a few seconds until the Cache Police Force finds them, cramped in a room that could barely hold them all, even with the door open.

“Ah, shit,” I.B. murmurs, but it reverberates through the meeting hall. Even under the mask, the microphone picks up their muffled words, broadcasting it through to the entire audience. They all knew what was coming. Everyone knew all the terms, but that didn’t mean they accepted them. 

And then, there is chaos. 

— 

Confidence also got you other places, they later realized. 

They got you places — places where there’s only the cold, damp air, of a cold, damp jail cell.

— 

**ACT III: 9.8 m/s**

I.B. is falling, falling, falling.

Perpetually falling.

They know that they have the wind in their grasp, that it would be too easy to just _fly,_ or _slow themself down,_ or _do anything other than nothing_ — but— they can’t. Electricity courses through their limbs, freezing their nerves and muscles and joints, and they can’t even do as much as _twitch a finger._

So they just fall, fall, and fall.

And let themself be saved once more.

_(They think they hate themself for that._

__

__

_They think they hate themself for being so, so weak.)_


End file.
